


No Shade(s) For The Wicked

by meinposhbastard



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Beta Read - We Ascend Like Aziraphale, Fluff, Humour, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Ugly Jumpers, crowley.exe endures a series of critical system failures, or are they?, ugly is in the eye of the beholder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Aziraphale is considering two of the four presents he prepared. This is the second Christmas in a row that Newt and Anathema invited them to spend at their cottage. But this is the first time he has something to give to Crowley, too.As the evening unfolds, so does their millennia-long dance, and Aziraphale wishes he could see behind those shades Crowley insists on wearing everywhere.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 105
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	No Shade(s) For The Wicked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Himbocracy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himbocracy/gifts).



> This is written for [lordweaselton](https://lordweaselton.tumblr.com) as a gift.  
> There were 5 prompts, but I chose to combine 3 of them: Demons don’t knit! (They do.); Very very ugly Holiday jumpers; (A/C specific) Just some good old fashioned cuddling because a snake’s got to stay warm somehow.  
> Hope you have fun reading this as much as I had fun writing it XD
> 
> Lots of kudos to Xim for being an extra pair of eyes and pointing out stuff that I couldn't see no matter the magnifier glass I put on. And also for helping with the synopsis (both this and the title have been the hardest thing to come up with for this fic).  
> And last, but not least, thank you to Janthony on the GOBB discord for suggesting the colours for Crowley's gifts to Anathema and Newt XD
> 
> UPDATE: Benjie did some adorable sketches of Crowley in snek form! Go check them out [here](https://benjiedrawings.tumblr.com/post/190125922998/good-omens-sketch-dump-the-first-ones-are-based)

***

Aziraphale was pleased with his presents. 

There was one for Newt, one for Anathema — which he would deliver personally — and one for Madame Tracy (to share with Mr Shadwell, obviously) which had been delivered that morning. Adam’s present was already on its way towards him; he thought Dog could do with a new collar. Tinged with the slightest holiness. Just in case. He secretly wished he would be there when Madame Tracy would open the present he carefully picked up himself — and see Mr Shadwell’s facial expression, mostly; never let it be said that, as Crowley pointed out with such deep conviction, he wasn’t a bastard deep down.

Right.

Which took him to Crowley.

And his two presents.

Aziraphale regarded the two distinct shapes laid carefully on the uncluttered part of his desk, which was the very center of it. One was square and not much taller than his cup of tea, wrapped in deep midnight blue foil with golden stripes and stars. The other a, more or less, round, malleable shape wrapped in bright red with white shapes of bells tied to mistletoe.

He considered them.

One, Crowley would receive as soon as the presents would exchange hands. The other— well. Perhaps it was too much? He didn’t want to scare the poor chap. After all, they were getting on splendidly. Not in the way Aziraphale would have wanted, but they made quite some progress since two years ago and he was worried this present might put a wedge between them. Or perhaps he was overthinking it. 

The doorbell jingled loudly, admitting one particular being after closing time, which was early due to it being the 24th of December.

“Ready to go, angel?”

Four fingers were thrust into the pockets of his jeans. It was still a mystery to Aziraphale how those trousers had any room to spare when they clung to his thin legs as if they were created directly on his vessel. For all Aziraphale knew, that was exactly how it was.

He pushed the two presents into a white paper bag with handles where the other presents had been placed already and turned his beatific smile upon his — definitely — friend.

“Of course, my dear.”

The road from Soho to Tadfield usually took about an hour and a half, perhaps two hours with heavy traffic. It took them forty-one minutes and nearly running over eight pedestrians (“It’s Soho! They know the risks!”) to get to Newt and Anathema’s cottage. 

“I hope you haven’t brought them a baby alligator as present this time around,” Aziraphale said as they approached Tadfield.

“I swear it was a plush toy!” Both hands dragged the wheel to the left and Aziraphale had to brace himself. “Before I forgot it in my car for two days.”

“Poor animal, it was famished! No wonder it jumped at Newton as soon as he opened the present.”

Crowley snorted, an amused grin stretching the laugh lines around his mouth. “Must say, best first Christmas Eve ever. Don’t think they’ll ever have anything like that again.”

“Yes, I’m surprised they invited us a second time. Anathema must’ve convinced him that it was an honest mistake.” Pause. “What did you get them this time?”

Crowley turns his head. “It wouldn’t be a present if you already knew.”

“But it’s not mine.”

“Why do you assume you have one?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Crowley. It’s tradition.”

“Never thought you one to celebrate this tradition.”

“We never had cause to do it. Now please—”

“But we could’ve. I mean, if you asked—”

“Crowley, please, the road. Pay atten- PEDESTRIAN!”

Crowley slammed the breaks even before he fully turned his attention back on the road. There were sheep in the middle of it. One bleated at them as if in challenge and Aziraphale feared that Crowley might be manic enough at that moment to take the sheep on. They watched the grass blades disappear fast into its mouth as it continued staring defiantly straight into the bright car lights.

“Pedestrian? Whoever let them out at this hour should be prosecuted for interfering with my driving.”

“Surely someone lost them. They usually graze on the pastures over there, on the other side of the road.” 

“Should’ve run them over,” Crowley muttered. “Could have lamb for dinner.”

“That is Easter. On Christmas Eve we eat roast beef. And I’m sure dinner is already cooking at the cottage.”

The lack of a response made him turn his head in time to see Crowley grimace, lips miming something in that way that made him look utterly silly and childish. The sheep finally moved to the other side of the road and Crowley’s mad dash began before Aziraphale braced himself.

“Hello, Aziraphale, Crowley,” Anathema said from the open gate to her courtyard.

“Hullo,” Newt said, standing right behind her.

“Oh, hello, my dear, Newton,” Aziraphale greeted as he took the big bag from the back seat, checking to see if any of Crowley’s presents had gained sentience during their mad trip to the cottage. 

The first thing that he noticed were the fairy lights adorning part of the cottage and the bushes surrounding the hip-high fence. But when Anathema opened the door and they filed inside their house, the first two things that hit Aziraphale full in the face were the soft tunes of Christmas songs and the smell of dinner cooking. Pork, potatoes, spices, and meat sauce. That Christmas would be positively _scrumptious._ The third thing that hit him were the decorations inside Anathema’s cottage. 

They made the place look so cosy and intimate with the fairy lights adorning the inner walls in the small corridor connecting the various ground floor rooms, the Christmas tree in the lovely little living room, and the tinsel and pine branches placed on top of paintings and between frills.

Crowley was behind him as Anathema squatted down to take out slippers from the shoe cupboard and Newt disappeared into the kitchen.

“Cramped,” Crowely said, barely a murmur, though his hot breath reached the side of his neck.

“Oh shush, you’ve been here before.”

“There weren’t so many _things.”_

“Newton is living here now.”

“He wasn’t last year?”

Aziraphale threw him an oh-lord-give-me-strength look just as Anathema thrust a pair of wool slippers (dark green, red, and white geometric forms adorning the top bit) towards Crowley.

“These are for you,” she said. “Last year you complained about cold feet. They’ve been handmade by Mr Bunberry down by the Oak Cottage.”

“Oh, that is such a kind thing to do, Anathema,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “Wouldn’t you agree, Crowley?”

“Yeah, yeah. Kind thing.”

He took the slippers and examined them the same way someone examined shoes who had the terrible fortune of stepping in a dog dropping and was not sure which side he should start scraping it off.

_Sottovoce,_ Aziraphale said, “Come now, my dear, put them on.”

“I’m perfectly fine in my shoes.”

“We are guests here,” Aziraphale continued in the same tone, head halfway turned towards his friend as Anathema was watching them with what Aziraphale liked to call a placid, serene expression, but someone else might say it was confusion bordering on amusement. “And what do guests do?”

It was at that moment that Aziraphale turned his gaze to Crowley just to see him do the same grimace he did in the car.

“Fine, fine,” he said and bent down to take off his snakeskin shoes with red in-seams and put on the fluffy wool slippers.

Aziraphale smiled pleasantly back at Anathema, but when Newt came out of the kitchen and turned his attention on Crowley his body did a rather odd thing, in which it convulsed forward with a sound unlike a snort, but short of a full laugh. Anathema glared at him which put a stop to that immediately, and Aziraphale could feel the side of his face heat up with what was certainly a smoldering glare from Crowley, too.

“Sorry,” Newt said, chastised.

Aziraphale’s shoulders wiggled. “Shall we go inside?”

The scene broke, Aziraphale and Crowley turned left into the living room while Newt and Anathema went right into the kitchen. Obviously Aziraphale had his own wool slippers, but unlike Crowley’s, they didn’t clash with what he was wearing. A tray with eight shots filled with Snowball was brought in by Newt and Crowley took the first one before the tray was fully on the low table.

“Mm,” he said before swallowing. “Best thing this evening.”

Aziraphale took one and sipped from it. They were sitting side by side on the couch while Newt sat on the opposing armchair with a shot of his own.

“I made it,” Newt said with a small, proud smile.

“You did?” said Crowley.

“Yes. Old recipe in my family. I remember my grandmother on my mother’s side making it every Christmas.”

“We should thank her,” Aziraphale said with a pleased smile as he took another sip.

Newt gave him an odd look as he scratched his stubbly beard. “You could. If she’s in Heaven.”

“Oh dear.”

Crowley’s smile stretched as he bent forward to take another one. “If?”

Newt tried to hide the smile behind the shot, but the shot being no wider than two fingers put together, it didn’t help. “Let’s just say that she’s done _things_ during her life that my mum was never proud of, but for which my grandfather praised her till the day he died.”

“Sounds like an interesting granny. I’ll say hi if I see her in Hell.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said with reproach.

“What? He started it. He clearly doesn’t mind.”

“I really don’t,” said Newt.

“Roast is done,” Anathema butted in. “I’ll need to prepare the appetizers while it sits.” She looked pointedly at Newt.

Aziraphale got up. “Oh, I could help with those.” He passed over Crowley’s slippers, narrowly (and unintentionally) avoiding stepping on his toes.

Crowley began needling Newt about his grandmother’s life, but soon Aziraphale ignored their conversation as he entered the kitchen and saw the various dishes covering every available space.

“Oh my, you went all out this year.”

Anathema threw him an amused smile before she went to stir the sauce in a small pot.

“Newt’s mom sent her apologies for not being able to come down and spend Christmas with us. As you can see, she filled our fridge and pantry with enough food to help us survive another Apocalypse.”

Aziraphale smiled as he took stock of the ingredients. “Good thing there won’t be another for a long, long time.”

“Won’t there?” She peered curiously at him.

“There won’t. We made sure.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I want to be haunted by Agnes’ ghost chastising me for burning her second book of prophecies.”

Aziraphale’s head whipped around so fast his neck didn’t even have time to get whiplash. “There was a second one?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? Yes, there was. But I’ve had enough of that old witch telling me how to live my life, so I took a chance.”

He looked down at the salad and tomatoes that needed to be chopped. “Free will, hm?”

“Yes, free will. It becomes annoying to know what happens next after a while. Not knowing, it’s— it’s freeing, I suppose. I can wake up tomorrow and decide that I want to go on a world tour or that I want to visit the Youngs or that I simply want to sleep in and enjoy a lazy morning. I can plan the rest of my life however I want to, with whoever I want to, and there’s no book shaping my decisions based on major life events about to go down.”

“Don’t you miss knowing?” He willed his coat on the hanger near the front door and his shirt sleeves rolled up neatly above his elbow. Then he began cutting the vegetables into cubes exactly how she had showed him last Christmas. 

“Sometimes I do. Sometimes I wake up and the first thing I go for is not Newt, but the book that is supposed to be by my bedside.”

“I suppose you’re trying hard not to do it often.”

“I do. Newt understands, though, and he doesn’t judge me when I get into one of my funky moods, when I go completely unreasonable because I don’t know. I forget that not knowing allows me to explore more avenues, to meet more people and to give them my full attention. And not just look at them as if they’re simply smudges of paint on a white canvas. I know so much more about people, about Newt, now than I did a year ago.”

Aziraphale smiled softly at the bowl which grew steadily in chopped vegetables. He was cutting bits of fennel when Newt and Crowley joined them. Newt made a beeline to kiss Anathema’s temple and ask her how she was feeling, but Aziraphale was not supposed to hear that because it was murmured against her cheek. He looked back at his bowl in time to see a pale hand with long, thin and familiar fingers retreat with a piece of tomato.

“Crowley.”

“Piece of the forbidden fruit, angel,” he said jovially before the tip of his fingers disappeared in his mouth.

“That was an apple.”

“Apple, fig, whatever you want to call it. If it weren’t those, it’d have been the tomato. The colour’s what matters.”

Aziraphale returned to chopping the rest of the fennel as Crowley stood at his right, a step closer than he normally would. “Says the Original Tempter wearing woollen Christmas slippers,” he said with his most beatific smile.

As if in defiance, Crowley tried to steal another piece, but Aziraphale’s iron grip caught his wrist and looked up at his demon in warning. He wished he wouldn’t wear those shades everywhere, but then again, they weren’t quite alone.

“First one was on the house,” Aziraphale said, not bothering to clear the gravel in his voice. “This one,” he leaned forward and took the piece of tomato from his fingers, lips dragging softly over them, “is not.”

_“Ngk,”_ said Crowley, the sort of strangled sound Aziraphale had begun to hear more frequently, at the same time as Anathema cleared her throat delicately.

When he turned back, both Newt and Anathema had colour high in their cheeks and were studiously avoiding looking at them. He let Crowley’s hand go, but he didn’t step away from Aziraphale. It was true. They continued that dance around each other even after the Apocalypse, even after their first Christmas spent together with their new friends. 

Granted, the dance made them gravitate a lot closer to each other since the Apocalypse. There were more touches given freely and sometimes absentmindedly, more time spent together. But the balance they perfected during those milennia seemed impossible to usurp. Their relationship was so balanced that neither dared do more than shake it every once in a while.

But Aziraphale had started to yearn. And it had been a long, long way coming. He yearned to show Crowley his affections more freely, but he was too scared Crowley would retreat back into his shell. 

So he chipped away at the walls, bit by bit, taking whatever Crowley was offering him. 

The tomato scene might have been a bit too much. But Crowley was not fleeing into a remote, inaccessible corner of the cottage. He was standing so still by Aziraphale’s side that Aziraphale was unable not to touch his shoulder to make sure he didn’t accidentally break his demon.

Crowley jolted, but not away. It was like watching a car start, that little lurch forward was what Crowley’s body did. Aziraphale retracted his hand fast, but Crowley caught it, for once being the one who stopped Aziraphale from retreating.

“It’s okay,” he said, almost fervently. “I’m fine.”

But Aziraphale did not believe him. The shades were hiding an important part of his facial features. He let Aziraphale’s hand go and even if Aziraphale could not make out his eyes in the artificial light, he felt Crowley was staring intensely at him.

“Newt, where’s the rest of the Snowball?”

Which meant Aziraphale had been too forward.

Crowley and Newt disappeared into the pantry and Anathema siddled close to him as she threw the cuttings straight into the bin.

“Is he— are you two still—” She didn’t seem to want to finish her sentences.

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. I’m afraid that is the nature surrounding our relationship.”

“But he seems so— well, less high-strung.”

He glanced at her. “Not enough, sadly.”

“I saw.”

“He needs more time,” he said after a while.

“You mean thousands of years were too little?”

A weak huff broke from his mouth. “Afraid so.”

(Out of Aziraphale and Anathema’s sight, Crowley stood stock still near the kitchen door, one glass bottle of Snowball in one hand while Newt was busy putting back the bottles of wine and boxes of food on top of the freezer.)

The dining table, although big enough to seat six people, was straining under the weight of the food it was piled with. The roast beef had the central spot and around the ceramic plate many other plates and small bowls made for contour.

Crowley placed his chair on Aziraphale’s side of the table on account of there being more space for the food where he had previously been seated, opposite Anathema, and thus leaving them more space for their own plates. A blatant lie which made Anathema and Newt exchange a glance and let it slide as naturally as water did on the back of a duck.

Aziraphale was the only one who gave Crowley a suspicious look as his demon started piling food on his plate and utterly ignore Aziraphale.

“Sauce, angel?” he said when he took the ceramic bowl with the meat sauce. Aziraphale stared at him, not for the first time wishing he could see behind those shades. “Angel?”

“Yes, please.”

He didn’t let Aziraphale take the bowl, instead he took the ceramic ladle and poured the sauce over his slices of beef and potatoes with a flourish. Something was afoot there and Aziraphale could not fathom what.

But he soon forgot about that little odd incident and instead focused on being a lively and wonderful participant to the small talk at the table.

It was well past two hours when each occupant declared full stomach. Well, Anathema declared food coma while Newt nibbled on a piece of fennel. Aziraphale would have scooped another piece of roast if Crowley hadn’t eaten the last one.

Crowley didn’t _eat._ He nibbled on food, more often because Aziraphale harassed him to try a new dish. He never ate as if he’d been living on bread and water for the past week.

The oddities that evening were starting to pile up and Aziraphale was not sure if he should draw attention to them or pretend he wasn’t aware.

They moved to the living room area after Aziraphale graciously cleared the table with a thought, leftover food in boxes in the fridge and the dirty plates clean in their respective places. Anathema always protested, but Aziraphale felt that it was the least he could do when the food had been so delicious.

“Tea anyone?” Newt asked, standing by the armchair Anathema occupied.

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale said. “Ceylon with a splash of milk.”

“Black with a splash of rum,” Crowley said.

“We only have bourbon.”

“Even better.” He was scratching the underside of his jaw, staring at something behind the free armchair, near the Christmas tree.

“Coffee for me,” Anathema said and Newt went to prepare their drinks. “I’ve always been curious. What’s it like in Hell?”

Crowley made a noise deep in his throat. “Dark, dingy, mouldy, crowded. Nothing fancy like that Alighieri’s work or metaphysical like Milton’s.”

“So you don’t torture souls down there?”

“They,” Crowley corrected absentmindedly and leaned back. Aziraphale was still sitting primly at his side and he was studying his fingernails. “Never tortured a soul in my life.”

“Oh?”

“Never been my job.”

“Right. You tempted.”

“More like whispered a different angle. Take it or leave it sort of thing.”

“And you were compelling, considering.”

“Hardly. She was already thinking about that tree. She just needed an extra little push.”

“That has been such a lovely dinner, my dear,” Aziraphale said just as Newt came in with their drinks. “I must say, I feel compelled to redecorate the upstairs flat and invite you over for next Christmas.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Newt said, taking his seat on the arm of Anathema’s armchair. “Will you two cook?”

“Takeaway,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale frowned reproachfully at Crowley. “I would be cooking, of course, although I would be delighted if you would tell me the recipe for the roast beef.”

“You can hardly chop vegetables without cutting yourself,” Crowley said in something that sounded a bit like jest, a bit like something else.

He didn’t look at him this time, preferring to watch Anathema and Newt sip from their mugs and watch them with interest.

“I have a year to prepare for the next Christmas. I’m sure I will perfect the dish in no time.”

“What about me?”

That made Aziraphale turn his attention on Crowley. He was drumming his fingers rhythmically on top of his knee. “What about you? Oh. Oh, of course you would be invited to dinner on Christmas Eve.” He looked back at Anathema and Newt. “And your parents. I would love to meet them, if you would allow that.”

Before either one could answer, Crowley said, “What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong, Crowley,” Aziraphale said without batting an eyelid away from the young couple in front of him. 

“But what if you hurt yourself or the building burns down because you forgot the stove on for too long?” Crowley said fervently. “You’ll need someone there to remind you.”

Aziraphale stared back at him. He had leaned forward and the drumming fingers had stopped, replaced by a white-knuckled hand covering his knee. Aziraphale was too stunned to even begin unpacking what Crowley was actually saying. His demon sprang up as if he’d been coiled for too long in a small, small space.

“Right! Presents time! Who wants presents? I’ll do the honours.”

“But I wanted—” Anathema slapped the back of her hand against Newt’s thigh. “Ow.”

Crowley grabbed the first one, wrapped up in golden tinfoil with green stripes on it. “Anathema,” said Crowley. “From Newt. What did you put in it? It weighs a ton.”

But Newt was smiling broadly as Anathema started unwrapping it to find a bundle of books, all in pristine condition although they looked old. 

“Oh my god, Newt! These are first editions! Where did you find them?”

Newt met Aziraphale’s gaze, still smiling. “Let’s say I had a lucky encounter.”

She was too caught up in caressing the hardcover books and their golden engravings to see the answering smile Aziraphale gave Newt.

“Charming,” said Crowley and Aziraphale jolted back because he was standing right next to him. With a square box the size of his thighs, three or four centimetres thick. 

“For me?”

Crowley didn’t say anything and as soon as Aziraphale took it, his demon scuttled back to pick up another present.

Left with the bright red and blue tinfoil present, Aziraphale checked the card in one corner. It said _Aziraphale_ without any name for the gifter. He would have suspected the young couple to be behind this, but for one they wouldn’t have hidden their names, and for another, he recognized the scribble. After all, not many demons would take the time to write a convoluted opening hours card for him.

Unwrapping the present made Aziraphale’s heart beat strongly in his chest and a small tremble of anticipation almost made him rip a side of the wrapping. What he found inside after he opened the cardboard lid was a neatly folded knitted jumper.

It was hideous.

It was the most incredible thing Aziraphale had ever seen in his entire life.

The jumper was hand-knitted; he could tell by the uneven loops around the reindeer head on the front. The antlers, which were sticking out in brown-covered material and were plush to the touch, were sewn unevenly on top of its head. The reindeer had a red nose which was also sticking out, the same colour as the rest of the jumper. It had zig-zagging rows of green and white near the seams of the sleeves.

He pulled the jumper out and Anathema gasped. When he turned it, two sewn white, felt wings sat in close proximity on the back. They were delineated by a scintillating silver line, not unlike tinsel.

“A reindeer with wings?” Aziraphale said, his own voice foreign to his ears.

“The wings aren’t the reindeer’s,” Crowley said as he handed Newt his present, which Aziraphale recognized as the one he'd wrapped. A simple bracelet he'd imbued with some angelic grace to stop Newt’s uncanny ability from ruining computers.

“Thank you, my darling,” he said, too caught up in staring at the jumper in his lap. “It is lovely.”

He didn’t register the sudden quiet in the room as Aziraphale reached a decision and before anyone could blink, his coat and vest were replaced by the jumper Crowley had made for him.

Anathema laughed delighted. “You’re such a sight, Aziraphale!”

“You are,” Newt confirmed. “You look like you’ve never been happier in your life.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I feel that way right now.” And then his eyes siddled to Crowley who was still standing halfway between the young couple and the tree with a small square present in his hand, not taller than Aziraphale’s mug back at home. “Are you going to open that?”

Crowley’s head dipped and he probably realised he was holding something because the next thing he did was cock his head to one side before he checked the little folded card underneath the curled ribbons. He frowned.

Much like Crowley, Aziraphale opted out of writing his name down and only left the recipient’s name to be seen.

“Really, angel? A bath bomb?” Crowley said, but the corner of his mouth was quirked into a half smile, half bafflement.

“Well, you’ve been up and down about the new fixture in your bathroom so I thought you could use with a bit of— what do they call it? Pampering. Yes.”

“That’s seen as a sin on your former side.”

Aziraphale fluttered a hand, not meeting his eyes. “We’re past that.”

“Much appreciated, angel.” Now he was smirking.

Aziraphale received gifts from Anathema and Newt, a pair of mittens and a scarf. Both store-bought. Anathema received from Aziraphale a charm he fashioned with a feather from his wings and a few stones with properties. It was for protection and he made it so that the feather would disintegrate if it was used for anything else but to look pretty hung up in some corner of the house.

Crowley gifted them both a matching set of merino wool tees. His was a hunter green colour and had written on the back in big, red, blocky letters: _Please return to the witch_ while hers was a garnet red with the message _I’m the witch_ on the back, written in gothic style green letters. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said crisply upon seeing the writing.

Anathema was laughing, though, and, uncharacteristically to how Aziraphale had always seen her, she extended a fist towards Crowley which he bumped with his own, gently.

“I don’t get lost so easily,” Newt said dejectedly.

“Of course not,” she said, twining their fingers which, for some reason, Aziraphale’s gaze was immediately drawn to. “This is just in case, love.”

After that, Crowley sat back beside Aziraphale, his bath bomb on the table near his cup of tea and they chatted animatedly well into the night. At least Crowley seemed to have calmed down from whatever mood he had been caught up in earlier, which was good. He couldn’t draw attention to it with the young couple around. There was so much that Crowley would permit Aziraphale to reveal about him to others and he wanted that evening to be spent in harmony and merriment, for everyone involved.

It was right after midnight that Anathema and Newt retreated to their bedroom. Unfortunately, Crowley had returned to the previous state of agitation, but now the furtive (not so furtive) glances were piled on top. Aziraphale ignored them, for now. He was too busy reacquainting himself with the room they had shared last Christmas. That would be exactly one year since they’d shared a bedroom.

“Well,” he said to break the silence between them because he felt he needed to distract his demon somehow, “Happy Christmas, my dear!”

“Eh?”

He was… checking the windows. Better not to ask what for. It seemed prudent to tread delicately now. His eyes fell on the white paper bag he had placed in the room before dinner. Was that really a good time to give his demon his other present?

Glancing at said demon, he found himself staring straight into dull yellow eyes. He took an unnecessarily sharp breath.

“What,” Crowley asked, a tad strangled. His eyes shifted.

“Noth— you took off your shades.”

“Yes, I did. Can’t sleep with them on, can I?”

“Of course.”

Crowley stood stock still at the foot of the bed, staring unblinkingly at Aziraphale’s jumper.

“My dear, I have something for you.”

“Something? We already exchanged presents.” 

“Yes, I know. But I have a second one for you.” He reached inside the bag and pulled out the malleable present.

Crowley took it and stared at it for a solid minute. 

“Crowley? It won’t unpeel itself no matter how hard you stare at it.”

That seemed to unfreeze him, and he sat on the edge of the bed before he unwrapped the present with carefully slow movements so as not to tear apart the wrapping. Oddly enough, a sense of nervous anticipation welled up in Aziraphale’s stomach. He didn’t will it away because he liked how it made him feel, all tingly and like he was seated on the edge of his armchair, watching Crowley’s face like it could reveal all the answers to his questions.

The moment the contents were revealed, Crowley’s entire body seemed to lock up in the same frozen shock as before. The only difference was that his fingers kept moving about the material, feeling it.

“I— I wasn’t sure if— I mean, I thought you’d want to open it in private, seeing as— well, it is meant for your other form.”

Crowley’s throat clicked when he swallowed. “Thank you. I’m—”

“Oh, it’s quite alright, my dear.” Now he could relax into the armchair. He even picked up the book he had brought with him to read during the night. “You don’t need to thank me, although it is appreciated. You’ve been complaining about terrible drafts and I thought that you could put that on when you take your snake form. I hope it is not too tight?”

The next he looked over the bed, Crowley had already changed into a black with undertones of red snake and had slithered his way into the knitted red jumper. It had the head and some of the body of a snake (Crowley’s black snake with soft spots of yellow) knitted on what was supposed to be the front, but Crowley managed to get the design on his back. He pulled himself up, the small jumper covering two-thirds of his body.

Aziraphale was not sure what his face was doing, but he felt his muscles cramp with the way his mouth stretched.

“It’sss perfect.”

He took the book from the nightstand and had the glasses he did not need appear on his nose out of habit.

“Would be a complete gift if you came to bed,” Crowley said in that sibilant way he couldn’t help when in snake form.

Now he knew his delighted smile turned into something softer and more— private. The kind only Crowley managed to pull out of him.

“Of course, my dear.”

He got up and willed his clothes to become comfier. 

“Really, angel? Onessssie?”

“It is a comfortable wear. And it’s fluffy, warm to the touch, too.”

“It’sss gonna trap the heat inssside.”

“Oh. You’re quite right.” He snapped his fingers and a two piece set of cream coloured pyjamas adorned his body, his tartan pattern covering every seam.

Crowley slithered on the other pillow while Aziraphale got under the covers. Without even waiting for Aziraphale to properly fluff his pillow at his back, Crowley made his way on his stomach, curling into a loose spiral, broken only by the red jumper. Aziraphale petted his head and Crowley susurrated in what Aziraphale could only describe as delighted.

Aziraphale pulled the covers up so that it covered his body, but it left his head out because it was lying on Aziraphale’s diaphragm.

“You’re pleasssed,” Crowley said after a while.

Aziraphale looked down at the yellow eyes from underneath his book.

“I am.”

“You enjoyed yourssself today.”

“Very much so.”

It seemed that his demon was more talkative in snake form. He could work with that. The cold weight on his stomach slowly leached the warmth his body generated. It seemed to make him more awake.

“I upssset you today.”

Aziraphale stared down at those snake eyes for a moment before he placed his book on the bedside table.

“You did not. You worried me.”

“Why?”

“At some point during the evening something happened to you. You became more— restless. I didn’t want to draw attention to it because I know you don’t like people to be privy to your private matters. Do you want to talk about what upset you now?”

Crowley retreated inside the jumper, under the covers. From the semi-obscurity two yellow eyes watched him silently. Aziraphale waited.

“I wasssn’t upssset. I wasss—” Pause. He slowly slithered back out, fist-big head lifted above the curve of the covers. “I heard you. In the kitchen.”

Aziraphale searched his eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

Crowley shook his head. “No. But you were wrong.”

He waited, but Crowley didn't elaborate further. They stared at each other as if they both could glean answers to questions they weren’t asking from the other’s face.

“Will you turn back to your human form, now?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’ll be naked.”

“But you can conjured clothes easily.”

“I don’t want to.”

Aziraphale grappled to understand what Crowley was trying to convey to him, why he was like that, talking about that. Did he want to reach some sort of end, a conclusion?

“Crowley, please tell me why you think I was wrong, and about what.”

“I don’t need more time,” he said. “I had enough time to make up my mind. About you. In fact, there wasss nothing to make up. I knew. From the beginning. Before the wall.”

Monumentous implications were crashing over Aziraphale at the moment. He tried to ignore the answering feelings that resonated deep within him, at first. Then he tried to deny that it was as simple as this. They’d been around each other for six thousand years. One might think that they’d have put an end to this dance long ago.

“Really, Crowley, please turn back human so we can have this—”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You read me too well like that.”

“You can put on your shades. I don’t care. Please, my dear boy.”

“I don’t want to wear them around you. When we’re alone.”

“Crowley…”

“And I like your gift. Would be a wassste to turn back.”

“I don’t care! Please return to—”

“You’re unreasssonable.”

“Will you return?”

“No.”

He began retreating into the cocoon made atop of Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Crowley.” The firm tone of his voice had the desired effect of making Crowley stop. “I want to kiss you.” Two beats. “And if you don’t turn back, then I’m gonna kiss you like this.”

Aziraphale waited. The snake melted into Crowley’s naked human form, the small snake jumper caught on his left forearm. He was not meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, but his cheeks were very much aflame.

He framed Crowley’s face between his warm palms.

“My dear.”

“Ssstop that,” he said, remnants of his snake sneaking in. He glanced up and then his cheeks seemed to actually catch fire. “I sssaid ssstop that!”

“What do you mean? I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re looking at me like— like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like _that._ Like I’m the best thing since sliced bread.”

“You’ve been the best thing since before sliced bread.”

“Oh no. What have I unleashed.”

Aziraphale smiled the softest smile his facial muscles knew how to reproduce. But it only lasted for a second. He was afraid his demon might actually spontaneously discorporate if he kept teasing him like that.

He kissed Crowley gently, at first, a press of warm lips on warm lips. And then Crowley clung to him, his hands fisted into the lapels of his pyjama top, and pushed his now warmed up body on top of Aziraphale. His hands moved from framing Crowley’s face to carding through (and messing up) his hair, fisting in such a way as to pull a moan from Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale stole it the same way one would steal a lady’s embroidered handkerchief. For _safekeeping._

Crowley opened his eyes when the kiss ended in a slow retreat. They were both flushed, yet neither was breathing hard.

Aziraphale’s hand glided down Crowley’s neck, then shoulder, biceps and forearm where he stopped and smiled. Crowley took his hand and pressed his lips to his knuckles, the red jumper on his forearm making Aziraphale’s chest fill with unnamable feelings.

“It looks good on you,” Aziraphale said.

“Of course it does,” Crowley murmured, lips still peppering small kisses on his knuckles. “You made it.”

“Crowley, my dear—”

Crowley kissed him again, this time a harder press of lips. It was also shorter and less patient.

“No more talking tonight,” he said, pressing another kiss on his cheekbone. “We talked for six millennia.”

Aziraphale acquiesced and Crowley settled half on top of him, arm slung over his midriff and fingers tucked underneath his hip while he pushed his face under Aziraphale’s jaw. It left Aziraphale with one arm useless but for carding through Crowley’s hair and the other free to repossess the book.

But there were more important things to do that night than read for the five-hundred-fifty-seventh time _The Portrait of Dorian Grey,_ and all of them had to do, in some manner or other, with the demon currently possessing half of his body.

And the entirety of his heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I am aware that UK and USA open presents on 25th. I believe it was my brain channelling Italian gift exchange on the Eve and taking it as something Brits do, too. Anyway, you can tots believe it is something they agreed to do since last Christmas, and since no kids around. A sort of tradition of their own.


End file.
